A Different Sort of Monday
by Elanthra
Summary: A Joe/Shep as Rockford/SGA Atlantis crossover. That makes this a AU? Possibly. Some things about Jim's Monday are normal ie they don't go according to plan. Some things are abnormal ie they don't go according to plan.
1. Chapter 1

I found this in my files. A bit of fun writing, inspired by the 'Joe as Rockford Campaign' in the spring. (I'd still so love to see Joe play Rockford...) I'd forgotten all about it. It was never really completed – interrupted by the bad news that Joe didn't get the role. This is about half of it. If you think it's worth finishing, which largely involves a bit of editing, let me know, I'll see what I can do. It shouldn't take long.

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A Different Sort of Monday

Chapter One

The trailer was in a mess.

Ok, so he never did keep it _that_ tidy.

No. This time, it was in a_ real_ mess.

And Mrs. Lindt, a burly – did he just describe his cleaner as burly? – fifties-something lady from two streets away, was going to freak out and that image in his head felt nearly as bad as the sight of the trashed trailer. And he wouldn't blame her if, this time, she handed in her notice and meant it.

He'd sighed when he'd parked up the Firebird and had seen the damaged lock with the door slightly left ajar. Well, nice of them to try and close it. Wouldn't want the local tom cat in there, now, would he?

But this was the third time in two months. Couldn't these people tell that his trailer had 'occupant broke, bad news for larcenists' written all over it?

Even if Jim had paid the premiums – which he hadn't – he rather thought the insurance company would be looking for that 'wriggle-out' clause for the third claim.

And he sighed again, when he pulled open the door fully and the little trash can, usually stowed under the trailer kitchen sink, rolled out suddenly, spilling its contents, the remains of three-day old take-out all over his shoes. Not a good start. He bent down and flicked off the... gooey stuff with a hand... not an especially smart move, Jim, he thought, scrunching up his face at the feel of the gooey stuff now attached to his fingers. Helplessly, he squinted round over the top of his shades for something to wipe his hands. With nothing but concrete and dust and tarmac and hot sunlight all round, there was no choice but to gingerly fish a hanky from his jacket pocket.

Breathing deeply - why do these things always seem to happen to him? - he then braced himself to face up to the inevitable. Listening. Checking. There were no noises coming from inside. Whoever had damaged the door, if they were still about, would have hightailed out of the window long ago when he pulled up with the car.

He heaved himself up into the trailer, stepping over the can.

His heart sunk. He'd been prepared for the worse and the worse was pretty much here.

The trailer was a mess.

Contents of cupboards, you name it and it was there, crocks, glass, papers, clothes, food, littered the floor and counter tops. Overturned furniture. Couch and chair cushions lay scattered like some whirlwind had just gone through - actually, they might have been like that already. The fridge, now empty of beers, stood with its door wide open, humming away contentedly, eating up more than its fair share of Malibu power, making enough ice for some homeless polar bear.

Jim sighed again. He guessed the bedroom and bathroom beyond were in pretty much the same state. And he guessed there was little point calling in the cops either. There was at least one consolation - no one had been clever with the graffiti like last time. An artistic interpretation of 'Fuck you, Rockford' was still seen faintly on one of the kitchenette cabinets from three weeks ago.

He made a quick assessment of what was missing – heck, it wasn't as if it was difficult - he didn't own that much. The ten year old TV and DVD player were gone, as was his laptop. Well, no great loss there then. The latter was a 'gift' from Angel, when Rockford had gotten him out of trouble a few months back. Which reminded him, he still had to tell Angel he could never get the darned thing to switch on.

He made his way down the trailer, grimacing at the scrunching noise his feet made on broken glass and opened one seemingly untouched cupboard. Yep. All the camera equipment he hadn't had with him for the morning was missing. Nothing but empty space. And he hadn't anywhere near finished with the payments. He guessed it was pointless looking for his revolver.

Yet, there it was. The cookie jar, still intact, sitting in its pride of place on a kitchen shelf. Funny – and lucky – how that had gotten overlooked the last time too. He reached up and pulled at the top to check.

"There you go, Rocky," he murmured under his breath, remembering the way his father was always on at him to find a safer place to hide it, or even to take the thing with him. He replaced the jar. Who ever had trashed his place had probably thought he was 'carrying' that day. Therefore they... didn't know him, but... knew _of_ him? Knew he was a p.i. but not that he hated guns.

He surveyed the wreckage of his home again running a hand through his hair with a sense of hopelessness. Yeah. At a loss where to make a start to clear the place up. It seemed a whole lot tempting to just walk out, shut the door and sleep in his car.

Jim took another step –

Shit!

He tripped.

Took a nose dive down onto the debris on the floor, catching his head on the small table at the further end – ow! - lifting his head - a louder, ow! - only to knock it a second time.

His vision was all shot for a few seconds. Nothing would focus.

Shit!

The remnants of day old take out – a Thai curry with far too much food colouring to be healthy – one that had never even made it to the trash can - was sticking to his shirt front leaving yet another gooey mess. He sat himself up, grinding more of the stuff on the floor with the movement, rubbing the back of his head, examining his fingers convinced he'd drawn blood, ruefully looking down at the stain on his shirt. He looked like he'd been shot, he thought with a wince. Suddenly this was all beginning to seem like a Laurel and Hardy film. What had he done to deserve this?

And now his head throbbed.

He peered to his side to see what exactly had tripped him up.

The flex to the answering machine. Of course, no self-respecting larcenist who took pride in his work would steal _that. _Jim even doubted he could have _paid_ them to take it.

Another 'gift' from Angel.

That Jim had been very reluctant to accept.

'Is this... hot?' he'd asked doubtfully. 'Look, Angel, you're going to get me into trouble if this is someone else's property. I'm still on probation here.'

Angel had looked at him with mock horror. Well, Jim had thought it looked like genuine mock horror.

And Jim had quickly thought of another reason not to take it.

'And... no one uses these things anymore.' Not when you have perfectly good cell phones. Angel had still pressed it on him.

'Every p.i. has a secretary!' Angel had obviously been watching too many black and white movie re-runs, and probably meant some dizzy bimbo blonde who sat and filed her nails. 'To take your calls. Imagine this is your secretary!'

'I am and she's really not my type.'

He hadn't the space for it either. Perhaps now it was broken – it sure _looked_ broken lying forlornly on the floor - he had a legit reason to throw it out. Without moving from his space on the floor, he hoisted the machine up to the couch and twisted round to press play. The darned thing still worked. Regular stuff.

Whoever left messages all knew he kept his phone switched off. For some reason, he hated being... 'got at'. Yeah, it was paranoia... a persecution thing that came about from months of owing money. The answering machine was another way of reaching/'getting at' him. He really ought to dump it.

"Fiona MacDuff here. What do you mean you don't search for missing cats? You one of those cat-haters-" He tapped fast forward. Though... if he didn't get funds in soon, he might have to re- consider...

"Pete from the garage. Sorry, Jim. Your account don't get paid, your car don't get fixed."

"Dr McKay here."

Who?

"Don't you ever read your texts!" shrieked the voice at the other end. "I've been leaving you messages everywhere! When you gave blood Monday last..." Yeah, he remembered it. Squeezing his eyes tight shut against the needle prick. Opening them again to Mandy, the nurse. Now Mandy _was_ his type. "...anomalies. You need to get back to us! Like now. This is an emergency!" And Jim was starting to panic a little from... the panic in the man's voice. "Can you make another appointment? Call me on 195 897949. Nononono. Scrap that. I'll come to you. Only... _be_ _careful..."_

Well... that was different and sort of got his attention. What the hell was wrong with him that he had to be 'careful'? Careful of what?

With one hand holding a refuse sack and the other popping stuff in, with his cell tucked under his right jaw, he finally got back to the Blood Bank people. They'd never heard of a Dr. McKay. Nor of any anomalies in his blood.

"And neither do we give out confidential information on patients like phone numbers to all and sundry," bristled the lady at the other end.

"Glad to hear that," and Jim thanked her with charm enough that he didn't feel.

His sixth sense kicked in. It didn't need much kicking though, when mystery callers warn him to be careful and his place gets robbed...

He let the sack fall and tapped in this doctor's number. He wasn't anticipating a reply, sure that the doctor must have made some sort of mistake. The number seemed weird and didn't match any regular dialling or area codes he was aware of.

"Hi, Hastings here." A casual male voice. Very informal and over-familiar for a receptionist. More like the guy thought he was taking an interdepartmental call between offices.

"Can you put me through to a Dr McKay please," asked Jim, all nice and polite.

"Who is this?" Suddenly, there was an edge of suspicion to the voice.

"Jim Rockford. Dr McKay asked me to call him."

"This is a secure line. He has no authorisation to give this number out." The guy hung up.

Jim took himself outside, grabbing at his shades on the way, and then dialled Becker as he paced a circle beside the trailer.

"No!" bellowed the lieutenant before Jim had a chance to say anything.

"Becker. You didn't need to answer," pointed out Jim drily. He was surprised Becker actually picked up the call. He could have been busy. He could even be ignoring Jim. It was usually the latter ninety nine per cent of the time.

"The answer's still no!" By the sound of his breathing and a regular banging noise, the man was taking stairs between floors

"I've been robbed," said Jim quickly before Becker changed his mind and hung up.

"So?" The answer Jim expected. "You're kidding! Who would want to rob you? You don't own anything to rob." The response that Jim expected too. And agreed with.

"They trashed my trailer." Perhaps he was trying for sympathy there.

"You want me to send forensics? To your trailer?" said Becker with unveiled sarcasm and disbelief.

That hurt.

"What happened to the police being nice public servants?" asked Jim.

"When did you last pay your taxes?"

Jim ignored that angle.

"I dunno. You said it though. Why would anyone want to rob me? Unless it's a cover-up. They were snooping for something else?"

"You're getting paranoiac. You need to see a doctor, not a cop." Becker had reached a desk and a chair. Jim could hear a squeaky swivel action work.

"And I had a doctor ring me." Jim persisted "About my giving blood last week. He said there were anomalies. And then warned me to be careful."

"You've caught some sex- ?"

"Becker." And Jim stopped Becker dead there. "The blood bank people have never heard of this Dr. McKay. They know nothing of the anomalies. And they don't give out private phone numbers."

"You want me to check out this... this... you said a Dr McKay?"

"I have a number for him." And he reeled it off, holding his breath. Waiting for Becker to react. To recognise that it might be a secure government line and that Becker didn't want to risk his career yet again for Jim. It didn't come. "You sure? That's not a proper dial up code" was all he said.

"I tried it. Got someone and they more or less told me to go away."

"Wouldn't know why... If I have a minute, I'll see what I can do."

Hmmm, something else different about today. Becker wasn't normally that... amiable. Possibly Becker had noted the 'be careful' as the most important thing in this too.

Three refuse sacks later and the trailer looked half-way respectable again. Mrs Lindt would be proud of him.

He made coffee. The machine was still in one piece and not _all_ the beans had been scattered over the floor. Somehow he'd got to get in some more food – and beer in. Get his clothes to the laundry. As much as he hated doing this, he'd probably have to pay Rocky a visit for funding. Groceries. The camera replacements. Then he'd get that the long lecture about getting a proper job.

His phone tone went. Becker back to him already.

"What have you gotten into now, Rockford?" hissed the detective. He was whispering?

"I wasn't aware-"

"It's military. Top secret stuff. More top secret than those special ops guys even. With hints of Area 52. I doubt this Dr McKay is even a real doctor. And this phone call never took place." Becker abruptly hung up.

Area 52. Rothwell and all that. What the hell? His day just got weirder.

He was getting paranoid after all? Half-a-dozen checks in his rear view mirror had shown him two serious looking four-wheel drives with blacked out windows. Presidential cavalcade stuff. He fully expected the ticker tape to come showering down at any moment. But if, they were following him – not a suspicion – an odds-on certainty he was sure - he tried, slowing and they'd slowed – tried speeding up and they'd sped up - they weren't exactly trying to cover that fact up.

With that warning, 'be careful' still in his head, he had to admit to something close to nervousness when he pulled into Mum's Better Buys parking lot and they glided in behind him.

He climbed out of the Firebird, noting that one parked well over to the other side of the lot, and a second four spaces away, letting out its three passengers, two men and a woman who promptly headed his way, the men buttoning up jackets to conceal guns. These were FBI and they meant to talk? They couldn't possibly mean to do anything else – not in a busy parking lot full of on-lookers. Could they?

He hitched up his jeans and pushed at his shades that had slipped down his nose, and waited for them.

The shorter of the two men - but hey, he wasn't that short, it was just that the other guy was just so much taller – he had to be six foot four and muscles bulged under a blazer jacket – pulled out a badge.

"James Rockford?"

"Yeah. What can I do for you folks?" he replied, glancing at the badge, trying to be ready if the big guy – who, close up, looked even more threatening with shoulder length dreadlocks - took him on, but what was Jim going to do exactly against a tank? Run, possibly...

And Jim found himself unconsciously checking for escape routes through the parked cars and Monday afternoon shoppers.

"Bates. IOA," said the black suited guy.

"And that's supposed to mean something?" asked Jim, raising an eyebrow.

"The IOA is a government agency, Mr Rockford," explained the woman, very politely, very deliberately, choosing her words very carefully as if English wasn't her native language. Jim couldn't take his eyes off her. As well as being very well spoken, she was also very good looking. He was instinctively doing his p.i. check. Large brown eyes. Dark skin. Auburn hair. A hundred and ten pounds. Good looks that could only be found on the front page of magazines. Wasted on a government agency if that actually was who she worked for. Then again... she packed a gun beneath a thin navy jacket... yeah, he'd been looking at her body – at the low cut bodice top – who could blame him? – if it was the last thing he saw, it wouldn't be such a bad thing. And Jim could tell by the way she stood, she wasn't just shapely and pretty - she was plenty used to taking on guys twice her size. Scary.

"We were wondering if we could perhaps talk, that you could help us by answering a few questions?" Her words were oozing with charm but had an underlying – what? – she'd flicked a concerned look up to the big guy in the rear, who in turn was fixing Jim with a stare, so... intense, heck, it was ... it was unnerving, that's what it was. All that hair. It reminded him of Chewie. He could just imagine the guy would growl at him like Chewie.

Perhaps, he was this Dr McKay? The doctor should have made contact by now. No. The looks didn't match the voice. And Jim glanced across the lot. Perhaps this McKay was in the other vehicle?

"Here?"

"You've been difficult to track down," said the Bates guy. Jim had been running errands all over for the past two hours and his phone was off. He had been difficult to track down. Yet they had. That meant they'd used traffic cameras? These three were definitely government. "And here, we can't be overheard." By bugging devices. Shit. This was getting heavy.

"Look guys, can't it wait? I'm about to shop."

"No. No. It cannot wait. And we will be very brief." And there was that tension again, beneath the lady's smile. And sadness in the eyes. And he could feel himself melt. Persuaded. He leant his hips against the bonnet of his car and folded his arms, allowing her one of his own re-assuring smiles. Still trying to relax his own tension that screamed at his legs to – hightail it out of there.

"Fire away. You didn't tell me _your_ name." He hinted at the woman.

Her smile shot up to her eyes then, knowing she was being chatted up, flattered for a second but killing it. She was more than used to it.

"Teyla Emmagan." And she held up a ringless right hand to the tall guy, "and this is Ronon Dex."

"Oh, but your name is a lot prettier. Unusual. But pretty." She came that close to a blush.

"You seen Dr. McKay today?" blurted out the tall guy. Jim threw him a look for interrupting.

"Should I have done?"

"He was on his way to see you when..." the big guy stopped. Something was eating him up and it wasn't Jim hitting on Ms Emmagan.

"You were expecting him?" put in Bates.

"He left a message to that effect on my answering machine. Yes. And texts. But he didn't say when. Nor what this is all about. _You_ gonna tell me what this is about? He said it was something to do with a blood test. But guys in the street don't usually get visits from "government departments" because of blood tests, do they now?"

"So you haven't seen him?" repeated this Dex, not answering any of Jim's questions, still staring at Jim with those lie-detector eyes of his. Jim sure hoped the result came out in his favour.

"No. I haven't. He's disappeared?" He could hardly imagine they wanted to hire him to find the doctor.

"He left our offices earlier this morning," explained Teyla, "without telling anyone exactly where he was going. We were able to find mention of you in his computer files. And yesterday, he referred to your name with Ronon, when he became... excitable about... a discovery." Ronon. She was using his first name. These two were close.

Jim eased himself off the car. It was getting hot out here. The sunlight glaring off cars was starting to give him a headache. Along with the claustrophobic feel of these three standing so near.

"Discovery?" And excitable? They were worried about one of their operatives who had gone and 'lost it'?

"We are not at liberty to explain at this stage. Our current concerns are for the well-being of Dr McKay."

"Look, I don't mean to appear selfish... but I sorta have concerns here too. Your doctor friend warned me to... be careful. Is there anything, in particular, I should be careful of?"

"It's been taken care of," growled Chewie, shooting a look to the other black car.

Alarm clamped in Jim's stomach as he caught the big guy's drift.

"You're giving me... babysitters? You giving me my own bodyguard and yet you won't tell me why?"

"It's too early," said Bates, and then he lowered his voice to a whisper, turning his head to face the back of the lot. "Later. Everything will be explained later. When you have... clearance. Until then – Get yourself home. Lock yourself in and those guys are gonna watch after you. McKay might still contact you."

They were probably tapping his phone already. Why did he get the feeling they were using him as bait?

"That bad, huh?" Yeah, he was getting more and more concerned. "Look, I need to buy food first. I'm right out. Earlier on, my place got trashed? Is that connected?" The three exchanged glances. This was a feeler on Jim's part but was news to them. It wasn't them who trashed the trailer then. Suddenly his concern went up a notch.

"Your place got turned over?"

"Yeah."

"They know of him and where he lives," said Teyla. Bates whipped out a phone immediately. "I'll see if we can upgrade your security." And to Teyla. "Full protective custody? A safe house?"

"It would be wise, yes," the little lady agreed.

"Look, mind telling me who 'they' are?"

"All in good time," said Bates, putting up a hand to quiet him as he got connected to who Jim guessed were the 'guys upstairs.'

"You're a p.i.? You have a gun?" asked Chewie, as blunt as ever.

"Yeah. I have a gun." Jim was trying to avoid the no-permit issue.

"You're not wearing a gun." Still blunt. And Jim hadn't been the only one eyeing up firearms.

"You think I should? I don't happen to like guns."

"You don't like guns?" asked Chewie, looking Jim up and down with a sort of incredulity that doubted Jim's manhood.

"No. I don't like guns. I said that," he snapped, letting in the irritability he was feeling into his voice.

"Why? Why don't you like guns?"

"They have a habit of going off – killing people."

"Hmmm." The big guy still didn't approve apparently. Bates snapped his phone shut and shook his head. "We're short-handed. What with McKay... and that... _other_ thing. They're going to get back in a couple of hours." The guy shook his head, and pulled back his jacket to put his hands on his hips. "Shit! I don't believe it! Who they got in charge over there?"

"I am sure that you will be safe, " said Teyla tactfully, turning to Jim, trying to reassure him.

"Yeah, I'm sure I will," replied Jim, not being the least bit sure, but it made it easier to accept coming from her.

"Unlike McKay," gruffed out Chewie, scowling at Jim as if it was his fault. Jim straightened up. The man was seething with resentment. Coming way too close for comfort in the cramped space between the cars. Jim wasn't too sure if he was going to have to defend himself or not.

"The disappearance of Rodney is _not_ his fault, Ronon," insisted Teyla, raising her voice more than she cared to, quickly checking they weren't attracting the attention of passers-by.

"Ok, you'd better come out with it..." said Jim, trying to be conciliatory here. Who were they protecting him from exactly when this guy was so threatening? Ronon was right in his face now.

"Hey!" from Bates. Pulling at Ronon's arm. "Not here." People's heads were turning.

"I don't trust him. He has no permit for his gun. What else is he trying to hide? Just because he has the AT-"

"Ronon!" Teyla. "Not here!" she repeated.

"Yeah, keep him under control!" agreed Jim.

Bates hastily pushed Ronon towards their car. The man allowed it, glowering back at them.

Bates tightened his tie. "Well, thank you for your time, Mr Rockford."

"Yeah. Pleasure." But he couldn't help the sarcasm. "Let you know if I see or hear anything?"

"They will," said Bates, indicating to the other car, as the pair turned to leave.

The girl gave him an apologetic backwards glance, catching him watching the way she walked... right... and he coughed... groceries...

Cindy at the grocery store - that was the name on her uniform tag - made quite a show of checking his twenty dollar bill. Crabbily holding it up to the light. And then pointedly used the pen. In deliberate slow motion.

"It is genuine," he said lamely. That's as good as he could do? All too aware of impatient sighs of other shoppers behind him in the queue. That included one of his guards, sixth in line, who'd come in for a packet of mints.

"Sure it is," she said sourly. And then looked him up and down, accusingly as she opened the till. He blinked as she slammed the drawer shut. Judge and executioner.

He wished it were Kim. For Kim, a slim young thing of nineteen, he could turn on the charm and she wouldn't even mind if his credit card _did_ get thrown back.

"Tomorrow, try moving your bed closer to the wall," he said scooping up his bag of groceries without waiting to hear the reaction. Because she really must have gotten out the wrong side this morning. He made a mental note to self, that it probably wasn't a good idea to shop there from now on.

Outside the sun glared down and he was glad he'd left off the jacket, but even with the sleeves rolled up on his linen shirt, he was still hot. The reflection off cars in the parking lot, off concrete hit hard even with his shades. He made it to the Firebird and couldn't fish out the keys with his arms full, twisting for the right pocket of his jeans, finding he'd put them in the left. Ain't that typical? His guard wasn't out the store yet. His partner sat snoozing behind the wheel of their vehicle.

Some kids were showing off on the other side of the lot setting off a squealing of brakes and the smell of burning rubber from tyres. He glanced up from struggling with the lock on the Firebird. Yet another four wheel drive. Porshe Cayenne. Expensive. Hundred thousand dollars, give or take a cent. Not kids but someone who ought to know better. They were going to kill someone with those speeds. And someone swore at them to rightly tell them so. He swopped arms for the groceries still jiggling the key in the lock, wondering whether he was gonna have to use both hands and put his groceries on the bonnet... or even wait for his bodyguard to come and help.

The speeding car suddenly came to a halt behind him.

Three men jumped out.

Three men in black jumped out. For real?

"Hey!"

They grabbed him by the arms and pulled and shoved him towards in the direction of the Porsche.

"Hey! Hey" That's all he could think to say?

It happened so fast - he ended up on the back seat, still holding his groceries, sandwiched between two of the guys – with a gun held to his midriff – and the car sped off.

And his Monday just got worse when one guy pulled down his collar and stuck a needle in his neck... and suddenly, it wasn't Monday anymore... it wasn't even day anymore...


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Crap! Shots of pain burned down his neck and up into his skull. A headache from hell. Must have laid wrong in bed somehow. In a draught? Gotta fix that faulty window. And he's upright? Not a good idea to move, Jim. Stiff. He eased the muscles of his shoulders, and slowly tried to move again. To lift his head. Screwing up his eyes, trying to focus. Flinching against the light of an overhead bare light bulb dangling on a long length of flex.

Since when did he have... a... naked... light..?

Realisation dawned. Not the trailer. Not in bed. And he remembered the car. And the two suits. And his groceries. Thinking to tell them to mind his eggs. They were gonna break his eggs. When they stuck the needle in him.

No. Definitely not in bed.

Sitting on a cold concrete floor with his hands tied behind his back. And judging by the tightness at his wrists, with those plastic ties. His ankles were lashed together by ropes. All sensation in his hands and feet was practically gone. But then the other guy's must be feeling the same...

He guessed it was a guy.

He didn't want to get all personal, but whoever it was had a guy's smell. They were tied together with more of those plastic ties, back to back, and what Jim could feel of the person through his shirt, he was sure his build was larger than a woman's. The hands rubbing up against his, even with the tingling numbness of pins and needles, felt large and fleshy. No. Not a woman.

And when he spoke... yeah, definitely a guy... but with a sort of a squeal...

"Don't move! Oh please, oh _pleeeasssse_ don't move!"

Yeah. Jim had shifted a half-inch to get comfortable. But nothing to go so crazy over.

"They cut out my responder, you know!"

"Responder?"

"A subcutaneous transmitter."

"Huh?" Jim really was none the wiser. His brain just wasn't ready for big words.

Now the guy was getting real exasperated. How dare Jim be so stupid? "A tracking device hidden under the skin. On the shoulder. So our people could find us... only now... they can't..." the man trailed off, with rather too much of a disconcerting hint of hopelessness in his voice for Jim's liking.

"That they... _cut_ out..." It was Jim's turn to trail off, wincing at the thought. Suddenly, his stiff neck felt like no big deal.

"Hmmm," whimpered the man.

"You're not... bleeding out or anything?" He didn't much like the idea of being kidnapped and trussed up with someone at the best of times - ok, that was never - but he certainly liked the prospect of being trussed up with a soon-to-be-dead-someone even less.

"No. They put on a dressing. They want us alive. Unfortunately."

Unfortunately?

"Well," and Jim coughed. It was darned awkward trying to talk round to the side. "That's good." Which, he supposed it was. "You know, you seem a pretty knowledgeable sort of guy." Which he did. But the repetition of 'they', when Jim had no idea who 'they' were, was just getting a mite irksome. "Any idea why exactly _they_ don't want us dead?"

Jim tried twisting round with the question and hissed against the fresh spasm of pain, instinctively jerking at his – _their_ hands in some vain attempt to rub his neck.

"Ow!"

"Ow!" They both said simultaneously.

"I thought I said don't move!" screamed the man.

" 'S ok, I won't be doing that in a hurry," gasped Jim, as the jolt to his neck and skull was immediately followed by the sickening sensation that the room was floating on something... well, floatey.

"What was that? Whad' they give me?" he asked. And the guy reeled off some chemically sounding name though Jim was far too fuzzy headed to even catch half of it, let alone understand it.

"Whatever it is, it should be made illegal." And he squeezed his eyes tight again. He'd really got to stop talking. Or moving. But he guessed, somehow, somehow _soon,_ he'd – _they'd_ - he assumed the other guy would be in on this - they'd got to find a way to escape – preferably without said moving.

"Yeah, across fifty states," agreed the other guy. And it came to him now. That voice. The same voice on his answering machine. Dr McKay. And it made sense. McKay was missing. And now so was James Rockford. Both missing. Together. Very much together.

There'd been an edge of panic in the guy's voice, a panic that was slowly finding a partner in Jim. If the guy was an actual medical doctor, the burden of getting them out of there was probably going to be Jim's alone. And how he felt at the moment...

"I've been trying to loosen the ties. It's... I couldn't," admitted the doctor all defeated. And Jim had figured that out too. That releasing themselves from the ties was impossible.

He slowly tried to ease his head to look round. A pair of wooden doors with inset glass and peeling green paint faced him, which even locked wouldn't be that much of a barrier but he guessed there were guards just on the other side. There were no other windows except those set high up, forming a perimeter just under the eaves of the roof, fifteen feet or so from the ground that, though in need of some serious cleaning, fed in beams of sparkling dust motes. There was nothing else in the room except a couple of discarded cardboard boxes - and them. Zilch here to help them escape.

He could detect a faint smell of truck fuel and black stains marked the floor. He _hoped_ it was oil and not something else... They were in some building of a disused depot yard he guessed. The doctor must have sensed what he was thinking.

"It's always like this on the TV, isn't it? Captives in old warehouses. What would they do without these old warehouses?" sniffed the man.

Or meat slaughter yards, thought Jim despondently. With slabs of dead animals slung on hooks. And he hurriedly willed the image away

"Look, who are _they_? Why do _they_ need us?" asked Jim, throwing his questions over his shoulder again.

"Trust me, you don't want to know! Uh... funny that... trust."

Hilarious.

Suddenly those doors burst open. And the two hoodlums who'd picked Jim up from the car park stood at the doors eying them over. Jim couldn't help it. He tightened right up and that heart of his started pounding in his ears. And he was well aware of the tension in McKay too.

Jim guessed he'd been right. They'd been guarding the door and had heard them talking. They made to leave once they'd checked that the two of them were still secure on the floor.

"I need food! I'm hypoglycaemic you know!" blurted out McKay, trying his hardest to talk round Jim.

One man glared back at him. Then...

Jim shook his head – he _had_ to be seeing things – the man's eyes lit up? – and then...

He spoke – and that wasn't exactly human either. A part of Jim went cold and he shivered. Actually... all of him did.

"You will be given food when I say so, not when you demand it," and the two left, banging the doors behind them.

"Ok! Ok! As long as you know I'll be no use to you in a coma!" yelled out McKay after them.

The guy had spunk. Jim gave him credit for that. Jim, himself, was still in a state of shock. Couldn't find his voice, not for one whole half-minute after the door slammed shut, staring after those guys with eyes wide open.

"What... _was_... that?" he croaked, and then coughed to try and find his voice again. "What he did with his eyes. His _voice_?" Perhaps he was just seeing or hearing things. The residual effect of the drugs was hallucinatory?

"I'm sorry. You just don't know, do you? Trust. It's the Trust. Representatives of an alien people on Earth."

Jim moved a lot at that, forcing McKay to squawk out again.

"Don't _do_ that! Did you really have to keep _moving_ like that?"

Jim ignored him.

"Aliens? You're making this up, right?" But quite honestly, it was the only feasible explanation. Or... he was tied up to a mad guy, also affected by the drugs. This was a bastard of a Monday. If it were still Monday.

"No!" The guy could hardly talk, he was in so much pain. Jim suddenly felt bad.

"Aliens? You're not kidding me? _Aliens_?"

"No. I'm not. And I'm talking _bad_ aliens here."

Did it matter if the guy had made it up? They were still in deep trouble, aliens or not.

"Squiggly serpenty horrid things that take over a human as hosts. Goa 'uld. And it's basically curtains for you. You can say good-bye to free-will. Consciousness. And the only way you can tell the hosts apart from normal humans is when those eyes start to flash. Oh, and they have a tendency to be megalomaniacal... oh yes, very into power and power struggles. Nothing they like more than to take over multinational companies... worlds... the Universe..."

He was kidding. He had to be.

"Though whether they're worse than Wraith, I don't know."

"Wraith?"

"Life force sucking vampires."

The guy had to have gone loopy. He just had to.

"What... what do they want with us?"

"Is there any point telling you all this? We're dead. And I'm not even sure if I'm allowed. This was off my own bat. They wouldn't give me authorization. I'm Dr Rodney McKay by the way." Jim couldn't even butt in and say he knew that already, the man was in full flow, talking at great speed. "But there, I was coming to see you anyhow. So it makes little difference. Well, it makes little difference _now_... because soon, we might as well be dead. As good as. That's why I told you to be careful. I'm supposing they're after the ATA gene. I've been inoculated with it. So they took me first. Then because they found out I was heading your way, decided you, a 'natural', was a better option. I suppose that means I might be on borrowed time but... they tied us up together, didn't they? They know you have it. They took blood samples while you were asleep."

McKay had to be gibberish. Feverish. Had to be. He sounded intelligent. How could an intelligent guy be making this up unless he was ill? Heck, how did Jim ever get involved in this? Give him missing cats anyday.

"A... T... A?"

"Ancient Technology Activation gene." There he went again with all the big words. "There was once a race of super intelligent people, some 10,000 years ago. Left their technology on earth, and in the Pegasus Galaxy. But you can only operate it if you have the gene. It's rare. We've been secretly running tests on bloods from the donor bank to set up a register. Your ATA gene rating came up sky high. Never seen anything like it. I wanted you to join us. The desk men weren't sure. You didn't exactly have a good background. In prison-

"I was pardoned," interrupted Jim sourly.

"Ah, not the same as innocent, is it?"

"Join us?" Jim changed the subject quickly.

"Stargate Command." Jim guessed it was some sort of codeword. "But," said McKay, we shouldn't be talking. We should be trying to get out of here."

"What do you suggest we _do_ exactly?" and Jim couldn't help the sarcasm.

"I dunno... look I'm sorry. I'm sorry I got you into this. But I haven't a clue how to get us out. I'm a scientist. Computers... tech... I'm not really trained for this sort of thing. Ronon. Teyla. But... not me." The man sounded about ready to cry. But then Jim didn't feel ecstatic about their situation either.

And Jim didn't doubt for one minute that he'd stand more of a chance of escaping from here if he were tied up to a Ronon.

"They'll rescue you. They came to see me. They were on the case," explained Jim, trying to calm the man, fill him in with information he might not know.

"You met them? 'Course they'd be searching for me. But without my transponder, they wouldn't know where to start looking. I've really messed things up this time." And Jim couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

"Look, it'll be ok," was all Jim could offer, however. And no way out.

"You think so? So which part of screwed don't you get exactly? They're likely to put one of said squiggly things inside of us, and then... that's that... Goa'uld able to use any Ancient tech they can lay their hands on."

And as if right on cue, the door flew open again.

A top guy swept in complete with entourage. Half-a-dozen or so new faces. All set hard. Not a good sign. And Jim felt the warm jerk of dread in his stomach. At least, they were empty handed. No sign of any creepy crawlies. And an odd thought flicked through his head. How did they do that? Get these things inside you? Surgery? Or... heck, forced you to swallow the thing? Now he felt... sick and was sure he went pale at the thought.

The head man nodded. His entourage spread themselves around the room. Beefy. Hardly any looked below three hundred pound and all showingly carrying full holsters. They meant to threaten. Intimidate. They'd done that all right. No way could Jim and McKay ever hope to take them on, so...

"So, you the boss, huh?"

Jim heard McKay's sharp intake of breadth. Jim guessed you didn't just drop into conversation with these guys. And Jim was kinda surprised himself at how calm and casual he'd actually kept his voice. He certainly didn't feel calm.

The man pursed his lips. No. He didn't really like Jim that much. Jim was being too insolent. It was going to get Jim into trouble if he didn't watch out. But then what had he to lose? Compared to being force fed a squiggly serpent thing.

"Untie his hands." And two of the Boss' cronies came to Jim's sides, drew out a couple of mean looking blades and obligingly cut him loose from McKay, and then freed up his wrists and legs. Jim was sure he got nicked but it was still expertly carried out. They'd done this before, he thought as they hoisted him to his feet, each gripping one of his arms tight, swinging him round to bring him face to face with the... Boss.

"Only I did wonder-" continued Jim.

"Be silent!"

"I was just saying-"

"Quiet!"

And the man backhanded him across the jaw.

A moment.

And he wondered if his head wasn't taken clean off. Stars and no sounds. And he fell limp in the arms of the goons. And then – he was actually able to breathe again, gasps gurgling through the blood at his lips. Not normal... hit... hit... he'd been hit by more than normal... more than normal power slap. McKay hadn't said. These guys had superhuman powers. Aliens weren't they? That figured.

Slowly he comprehended more that the pain throbbing at his jaw. Another two guys had entered the room. One carrying a small wooden box. Six inches by six inches. The other - heck, he felt sick again and it wasn't all down to the blow to the head. A greenish snakey thing. Four very pointey teeth. _Four_ eyes. Doing slow back flips in liquid. In some sort of glass flask. All lit up.

"Nononono," said McKay from down on the floor behind him. But Jim didn't exactly need McKay to give him any sort of warning. And McKay got himself kicked for his troubles. Jim had only just met the guy but something like hatred sort of knotted in Jim's gut – he just didn't like it that these guys were pushing them around like this.

"Hold out his hand!" Came the boss guy's next order. Jim was starting to piss him off then. The boss guy's voice was just getting a little more boomy, and those eyes flashed just like the guard of earlier.

And Jim couldn't stop them as they grabbed for his right hand. He made a fist, but they prised open his fingers. And Jim was certain they only just managed to restrain themselves from actually breaking the bones.

And through his fuzzy vision, he saw the wooden box opened and something like a crystal ball was thrust into his palm. One of the hulks forced his hand to wrap round the ball, pressing their own over his. After all, it'd make a pretty nifty weapon. Yeah. Jim could do some payback damage to a jaw or two with that...

And quite honestly, on reflection, Jim couldn't see what he was frightened of. The ball was cool and sort of nice to touch. But Jim, for the life of him, couldn't get his head round what was supposed to be going on with the ball thingy.

"Switch it on!" demanded the boss guy.

Come again? A glass ball?

"Switch it on! Do not mess with me!"

"He doesn't understand! Until ten minutes ago, he hadn't even heard of the ATA gene!" hollered out McKay. It probably saved Jim from another slap.

The Boss seemed to soften, and nodded.

"You think 'switch on' and it should obey your command."

This was a show. A demo. But what if he didn't do it? They'd kill them. Jim was convinced of that. And if he did... there was the snakey thing. No win.

"I'm not sure. I'm sure if that might renege on the deal. I'm kinda loyal like that. I keep my word."

The man frowned wondering what the hell Jim was talking about. Rightly so. Heck, Jim wasn't even sure how he was playing this, how it might pan out.

"Just stop with the talking and do it!" The boss guy sure was getting agitated. And really, that was the whole point...

"But the other guy might not like it." And Jim tried to look around, helpless, making out doubt, confusion. "Though he's not here now..." Luckily, neither of the two earlier guards were. Left at the door again, Jim guessed.

"He said no talking!" and Jim was punched in the kidney. He would have dropped the darn ball if it weren't for the tight grip around his fingers. But he'd got to take this punishment and play for time He glanced at the serpent thing again. Yeah, as if he needed further incentive - he'd actually _got_ to keep talking.

"I can't help it. I always talk when I'm nervous. Rocky, that's my dad you know, he says I take after him, he talks far more than me. You should hear him some-"

Another punch. Harder this time. And he was on his knees, panting out breathes to the floor, shaking his head to stop the room from reeling. So... they'd held back with the first one. Nice. Because this hurt a helluva lot more. He was hauled straight back up to his feet, and for added touch, one of his guards, pulled at his hair, yanking back his head, constricting his throat - Didn't they know he was supposed to breathe?

"Just do it, Rockford... Switch it on... You're making _me_ nervous," begged some whizzy voice that might have been McKay's.

They won't kill me, thought Jim. They need me too much. Rodney had said that. Jim could push this as far as he liked. But it was a narrow line he was walking, he knew that.

"Ok... Ok," he wheezed out and they released his head.

He closed his eyes. It helped with the pain and nausea. But he guessed this was how he was supposed to do it. Switch on. Like a light. And he felt a warmth in his palm and opened his eyes. And there it was. A shimmering ball. Like some high class designer lamp. And... he'd made it happen. There'd been nothing to flick on and off. There were no batteries.

It'd all been down to him.

The serpent thing seemed to go hysterical in its flask. The movement caught Jim's eye and yeah, that soon quashed his epiphany, his great moment of self-discovery.

"Eglisha has deemed you a satisfactory host."

Jim was instantly swivelled round and once the room had steadied and not spinning, he made out the look on McKay's face. Saw the doctor stare, eyes wide open, beyond him, into the room. He was seeing what Jim could only hear. The lid coming off the flask. Saw McKay glance away as the goons ripped Jim's shirt exposing his back, with a force that even sent the buttons popping at the front.

They were going to do this through his... _back_?

Panic set in. Yeah, and horror too. He'd got to talk and he'd got to talk fast.

"Where was I? Boss. I was just saying to my friend here, that was after we did that deal with whoever was in here before... 'I'm not sure,' I said, 'I'm not sure if we should have done that, make a deal with that _other_ guy.' You see, he didn't seem like the boss. Hadn't quite got your... well, you know, that _something_ special... what they call it?... aura... majesty... command... I dunno... what's the word I'm looking for? Help me out here."

Jim had carried on talking long after he got the reaction he wanted - he really didn't think it'd be that quick. Either they were extremely gullible or he was getting that good.

Jim could just sense the Boss guy was fuming. One of his men moved away from the wall as if beckoned over.

"Get Bennett in here!" came a roar that even shook the overhead windows.

And there was the sound of more frenzied splashing coming from the flask. The Boss guy wasn't the only one with increased blood pressure.

Another goon stepped forward too.

"He's lying!" he said in something like a normal voice. "Bennett would never double-cross you."

"What was the deal?" demanded the Boss guy, thankfully disregarding the voice of doubt there.

"Well, now," replied Jim over his shoulder, "I wouldn't want to get him into any trouble. I'm really not that kinda guy. But there was that other thing too..."

"Tell... me... the... deal!" And Jim winced at the decibels just six inches short of his left ear. "And the other thing! What was it? Tell me!" And there was that yanking at his hair again which made it damned near impossible to talk so what was the point exactly? But the pain... well, it helped make Jim a whole lot more believable with his story/confession.

"He said..." trying to haul in some air, "he said that his serpent thingy... you... just... gonna... have to let go... of my hair there guys," he winced "... can't speak..." and the tight hold did ease off a little. "He said his serpent thing was needing a host body more than your serpent thing and if I helped, then he'd let McKay go." And for pathos and added drama, Jim threw in the best abject apology he could muster. "I'm sorry, McKay. I guess I've just blown your chances of getting let loose."

Bennett was instantly dragged in. Though Jim was certain there was nothing here that the guy possibly couldn't handle, but he seemed pretty scared of being accused of having his own secret serpent.

"It's not true! Believe me! What he says are lies! Lies!"

"Why would he lie?"

Those holstered guns were pulled out aimed straight at the poor guy. And suddenly Jim was feeling very vulnerable stuck here in the middle of what was shortly going to be a firing range. No one seemed to be in a hurry to let go of Jim. This is what he'd planned on happening. And he could hardly believe his luck that it had... but he had just a teeny bit of a preference to be half a mile away by now.

"You have a rival symbiote to Eglisha! Tell us where it is hidden!"

Suddenly it was the proverbial all hell let loose as Bennett, certain he wasn't ever going to convince his pals of his innocence and probably possessing that megalomaniac tendency that McKay had mentioned, pulled out his own hand gun and started firing, fleeing for the door. The gang seemed split about fifty-fifty and his back was defended by three or four of his closest buddies. Jim, his guards suddenly having to defend themselves, was shoved to one side, and he dived for cover, pulling McKay over to the wall, cowering over the doctor to protect him. The noise was horrendous. And Jim's bare back was taking the brunt of bits of wall and wood and glass that showered down over them as bullets took chunks out of the wall. He squeezed his eyes tight against the blinding flashes of light, feeling the flinches of the man beneath him. They'd so got to get out of here.

But Mondays aren't all bad.

Someone dropped to the ground, close by, groaning, clutching at his stomach. And Jim instantly snatched at his gun and knife, putting down the thought that he didn't actually like firearms. The room had now emptied taking the fire fight out into a yard beyond. Except for the now still hoodlum. Except for one writhing Goa'uld lying in a puddle of liquid, studded with broken glass.

In seconds, he cut at McKay's bindings and they were out the door.

Jim took the lead without questioning and still moving, pushed the knife into his belt and attempted, unsuccessfully, to tuck in the remnants of his shirt. They ran, crouching low in the space between a high perimeter wall and parked vehicles – a couple of four wheel drives and a van - smarting at every ricochet that came their way. How were the bad guys ever gonna explain the ruined paintwork on their nice cars to their insurance brokers?

They quickly made for a wire gate that led out into the street. Mondays weren't all bad. They only had to duck once when the fight came too close and one of the goons, seeing they were trying to escape made a rush for them. Jim gritted his teeth and let off his weapon, trying not to feel too bad that he'd probably just taken a life. There were memories flooding in at the edges of Iraq...

"You've done this before," hoarsed out McKay from somewhere behind him, flinching again as debris rattled down on them, loosened by the odd stray bullet. He guessed that McKay had seen his military record at some point if he also knew he'd been in prison. But Jim was just too busy to respond, turning the gun on the gate padlock, and they soon found themselves running for dear life out into the street.

Jim had blindly turned left, damming all thought of the bruises across his middle that tugged at every stride. He swapped his weapon arm to shake off one half of his shirt, that annoyed him by flapping in the wind.

"Which way?" he yelled back, without thinking, as they quickly hit a junction, linking up to yet another street. There was nothing but disused industrial blocks either way, with ground floor lock-ups and garages, offering little in the way of cover or hiding places if they needed it. There was certainly no one to call the cops for them.

"How should I know?" hollered back McKay, puffing to keep to Jim's pace setting.

Any way but fast. There were noises behind them now. Scuffling. Shouting. The weapons fire had ceased. Guys were giving chase. On foot. And there was a sound of revving vehicles in the yard.

Jim made right.

Left and they might end up going in a circle.

A dozen doors down and McKay pulled at Jim's arm, wanting to stop for a breather. He was perspiring heavily and holding a hand to his chest. Jim remembered something about hypoglycaemia. But hell, he didn't think he could carry the guy, so he was more than relieved that McKay was able to struggle out a question though really, they had little time for a friendly chat.

"How did... you know... it would... go that way? I mean... back there..."

"I didn't."

A chopper. Overhead suddenly. Two guys, with rifles, leaning out of an open door. Now that had to be plain showing off. A chopper to chase two guys on foot who hadn't a clue where they were going? Each to their own...

They were sheltering in an entrance of a door that was plainly locked. Jim turned his gun on this second lock but couldn't get the angle right and still remain under cover before the guns on the chopper let rip, mashing the front of the building, dousing them in a cloud of plaster and stuff, sending them ducking down to the doorstep.

"Damn! I thought they didn't want us dead?" Jim swore as they set off running again while the chopper disappeared over the rooftops ready to make a return run.

Mondays were bad after all. They just weren't going to make any headway and close that gap between them and the men chasing them.

"I think it was a warning shot! To slow us down so we can be picked up again! But this might be a good thing!" shouted back Rodney.

"You think?" returned Jim, hating the way that now the left hand piece of his shirt insisted on hitting him in the face.

"We have a very good scanners... my guys will... be tracking... any unusual aircraft... namely..." and Jim glanced back at him, seeing McKay pointing upwards, before the two of them were forced to tuck down low again beneath the next onslaught.

"They won't get here in time! Will they?" cried back Jim, choked by dust, whipped up from the street by the chopper blades.

"Four minutes and thirty two seconds! Precisely!" yelled McKay, swiping aside litter that had slapped him across the head.

"You know that?"

More gunfire drilled holes in the walls above them. Jim wasn't sure he'd never hear again. The chopper swooping low along the street wasn't helping with the deafness either.

"In the meantime, I suggest we give ourselves up! Buys us time. Without getting..."

Killed. Yeah.

"And there was me thinking to make a brave last stand!" shouted Jim.

"You're kidding, of course?" shouted McKay, even louder.

Jim pulled a face, and stood, throwing the gun down to the ground and raising his hands. He grabbed at the irritating rag of his shirt, pulled it off his shoulder and held it up high too. They might as well have the whole white flag thing.

The chopper pulled away as one of those four wheel drives screeched into the alley coming to an abrupt halt, pouring out its contents of hoodlums, who promptly covered the two with those guns again. One picked up Jim's weapon and indicated he should throw over the knife too. Another four of the trust operatives arrived panting on foot. Jim and McKay may have gotten themselves re-captured but there just had to be a feeling of satisfaction that they'd put these guys to so much trouble.

Suddenly... the chopper... it exploded?

Because everyone, and that was everyone, hit the ground, thrown by the force of the impact. And Jim's world was a sensation of hard grit on his stomach, scorching heat on his back and a tightened suffocated throat, choked by fumes and smoke. A few seconds to recover and he dared to look up, seeing the fireball career backwards, engulfing a nearby roof in flames. This was getting just like Iraq? And that had been down to a missile? Because Jim was certain he'd heard no other aircraft.

"They're early!" he heard McKay splutter and cough nearby, whilst trying to get to his feet. "Not that I'm complaining!" McKay grabbed Jim's elbow and pulled him back to their former doorway. Yeah, and Jim was dazed. But that alone didn't quite account for the way his Monday had taken on a surreal quality. Jim still hadn't heard any nearby aircraft, but here were black shapes abseiling down buildings as if they'd appeared out of thin air. The cavalry. Special ops guys filling up the area.

"Cloaked jumpers," explained McKay, as if that really did explain things - McKay might as well be reading something from a Japanese menu and Jim wouldn't know.

Once again they were caught up in crossfire. This time, he guessed, it was the bad guys versus the good guys and that was sort of comforting. Sort of. And Jim felt he could do with a gun now, to try and help out. Though he was still in something of a stupor from all the noise and the weird things happening to him. Thick black clouds drifted down from the burning chopper and building, filling up the street, adding to that dreamlike quality and snagging in the back of Jim's throat. And it was still feeling like a dream when special ops guys, ghostlike, appeared through the smoke, yelling at them to move. He shouldn't be doing this. None of this should be happening to him. He's a p.i. A p.i. about to make a speciality in tracing missing cats.

" Go! GO!" the men bawled at them. And go, they did.

He noticed then, Teyla and Bates and Dex, all now wearing flac jackets, up ahead, giving covering fire. A half dozen dead or groaning bodies from both sides of this war littered the roadside. This was like Iraq. McKay started lagging behind again and a special op agent and Jim both lent the slower breathless McKay, a hand, dragging him along by his arms.

"I'm not going to make it!" McKay howled above the racket that just wouldn't let up, trying to wipe his eyes, smarting and tearful with the smoke.

"You've got to!"

Jim just wished he knew where they were headed though. Everywhere seemed like utter confusion, punctuated by the constant ratta tat tat of gunfire. In front and behind them, guys were equally having a rough time of it. This was getting kinda of a hairy run.

They by-pass Teyla and Bates.

But Ronon, shouted to their special ops guy, called Lorne apparently, and broke out from behind a refuse skip. The two sprinted even further ahead to give them better cover. Jim and McKay weren't going to get any further. And Jim pushed McKay behind the refuse skip.

Lorne, stumbled and was down on the ground almost instantly, clutching at bleeding thigh.

"The jumper's up ahead!" he hollered at them. But Jim couldn't see anything. And he certainly didn't reckon it was good advice to go and advance anymore. It was just too damn dangerous. Instead he scooted forward, head down and grabbed at Lorne's jacket, dragging the guy back to the safety of their skip.

And Jim's hearing must have settled because he could hear Bates yelling behind them into a radio for the jumper to take out two guys in a doorway that were keeping Ronon pinned down behind a second skip. Ronon couldn't even return fire as a hail of bullets trimmed chips and sparks off the skip all over those dreadlocks.

So where was this 'jumper'? Ronon wasn't going to last that long. There was nothing for it. Jim grabbed Lorne's handgun and fired at the two in the doorway. He took down one of the bad guys - it was like killing flies - necessary - but the other dodged back into the building's interior to re-appear moments later at a window, smashing the glass with his rifle butt, raining down more fire on the trapped Ronon. Blood was glistening on Ronon's arm and head. Jim hesitated. A notion forming. But he needed to be three yards further out into the street...

"Nononono! You are so not thinking of doing that!" McKay was reading his mind. "The jumper - give it time!"

Ok... Iraq training here... it shouldn't be difficult. Like riding a bike. Like swimming. A deep breath and he launched himself... rolling over and over in the dust... and that hurt... arms outstretched above his head, jerking to a rest on his stomach, steadying his wrists, aiming and firing in seconds all in one easy movement.

The rifle poking through the window went quiet.

Target out.

Smug, Jim, huh?

"You could have got yourself killed! Just don't do that heroics thing again!" screamed McKay. Well, that was sweet. He cared.

Two sudden stabbing pains in the back told him then, that he might have gotten things wrong... Jim twisted round to see the damage...

Nonononono from McKay again... that seemed to go dim in his ears...

Dropped the gun.

Couldn't breathe.

And agony blacked out the daylight.

* * *

"Grapes."

And Becker dumps a brown bag on Jim's stomach. It's soggy and leaking at one corner. The nurses are going to love the wine stain on his sheets.

"Thanks." Yep. Jim's put just the right amount sarcasm there. He can't lift a finger to move them. He's too weak. And Becker knows that. Why is Becker giving him a hard time? Hell, he's just had two hours in surgery and been out cold for twenty-four hours. He never saw his Monday end. Some pity and compassion wouldn't go amiss.

Becker pulls up a chair, swivels it round single-handed and sits astride the seat, crossing over his arms to lean on its back, resting his chin on a wrist, eying Jim up.

Saying nothing.

This is weirding Jim out.

"Becker? The grapes?" ventures Jim, flicking a hand up that catches on the IV tube.

"Sure." And Becker flings them to the side table.

The detective goes back to his former position.

"Where's Rocky?" he asks eventually.

"Bathroom."

"Oh."

More silence.

"He's been awhile."

"Well, you know... at his age..."

"Yeah."

More silence.

And Jim can't stand it any longer.

"Becker, spit it out – what is it you want to say?"

Becker raises an eyebrow at that, and then shrugs his shoulder.

"Ok," he agrees affably enough. "You know, you never cease to amaze me."

"What?"

"How you always get me into trouble with my superiors."

"Whad I do?" because Jim's convinced that in the last week, he's done no such thing. A world record for him.

"A firefight right on our patch? When half a block is blown to smithereens. Like something out of a Schwarzenegger film and it involves you and I can't convince them I had no idea what was going on."

"That's... that's hardly my fault." And yeah, Jim sounds a bit sulky. He leans his head back into his pillow because he'd rather not think how close a call it'd been. He must have winced because Becker then almost sounded sympathetic.

"I _did_ say to be careful."

"Yeah, well, you know me. Since when have I listened to good advice?"

Becker stands abruptly, making the chair scrape the floor, patting Jim on the shoulder - too hard - it hurts.

"At least, it seems, I'm going to be rid of you for good." Well, he needn't sound quite so pleased. Becker must have been talking to Bates and McKay, seen through the window to Jim's room, discussing something out in the hospital corridor.

Jim had been offered work. Permanent work. That's why Rocky was probably in the bathroom. Overcome with the excitement. Peeing himself at the prospect. That Jim might get an actual regular monthly pay-check.

Stargate Command. Though Rocky hadn't been told who Jim's new employer was. Nor that it'd involve months away from home. Nor that it might get his son killed... Jim had withheld all that info from his dad and it wasn't entirely due to signing any official secrets papers either. The old arguments might still have to come and Jim wasn't exactly relishing the thought.

Jim had been visited by some general called Jack O'Neill. Jim had liked him. Even when he'd nearly scared Jim shitless with talk of Stargates.

'If you don't mind, I think I'll give it a miss. It sounds like dangerous work. And I quite like my skin. Sorta keen to keep it in one piece. And I've just discovered a liking for cats.'

General O'Neill had puzzled over that one, but had still delivered the lecture on choices and talked about Iraq... O'Neill understood the hell Jim had gone through in Iraq... dead friends... and how there could never be guarantees about protecting any new friend he might make... but it wasn't enough of a reason to run away from the fight...

And Jim guessed he liked the man even more.

"You know you'll miss me," says Jim limply to the departing Becker.

"Yeah. Keep in touch," Becker says lightly and there's a smirk on the bastard's face as he walks out the door.

The End


End file.
